


Too Close, Too Late

by BrainlessGenius



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is Bad at Feelings, Insanity, Logic | Logan Sanders Angst, Logic | Logan Sanders is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Musicalia, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Sad Ending, Self-Harm, Song fic, Song: Too Close (Alex Clare), Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love, or until the person goes insane, the song keeps playing until the love is reciprocated, yes this hurts like hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrainlessGenius/pseuds/BrainlessGenius
Summary: Virgil and Logan are best friends and Virgil was stupid enough to fall in love. When a song starts playing on-repeat in his head, he finds out that the only way to end it is if his love is reciprocated. Now it’s just a race between his sanity and Logan’s love in return, and he thinks the latter is losing.A fill for the prompt "Unrequited love, any ship, Musicalia + Unhappy ending"
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 19
Kudos: 43





	Too Close, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning/s:** _Major Character Death, suicide, mention of suicide attempts, suicidal ideation, self-harm,_ figurative mentions of sharp objects, panic attacks, unrequited love, please tell me if I missed anything
> 
> Song: Too Close by Alex Clare

_You know I'm not one to break promises_

_I don't want to hurt you but I need to breathe_

Virgil drags out a breath as he plops backward onto his bed, eyes closed and headphones over his ears. Thomas has gotten attached to this one particular song lately -- “Too Close” by Alex Clare. Virgil doesn’t understand why Thomas suddenly grew a liking to it. The song was released ten years ago, and it was hardly a masterpiece. But Thomas likes it, ergo, Virgil does too, much to his dismay. 

It’s catchy, though. He’ll give it that.

He’s put his playlist on shuffle for the past few days to try and get the song out of his system, but for some reason the darned thing just keeps popping up, and Virgil never has the will to skip it.

It isn’t that the song is terrible, it isn’t the opposite either. It’s that it reminds him too much of a certain side; a side he’s been avoiding lately, one who’s started noticing.

It reminds him of Logan.

_At the end of it all, you're still my best friend_

_But there's something inside that I need to release_

They’ve always been close. Roman and Patton’s undying, exuberant energy was too much for them, while Janus and Remus’ chaotic antics didn’t always sit perfectly with Virgil or Logan as well. They both grew to find indulgence in harmless little debates, peace when they sat in silence on the couch reading books, company in the way they made coffee together, calling each other out for their drastically different tastes. 

He dared to call Logan his best friend, and Virgil was stupid enough to fall in love.

He knew he was truly, deeply fucked when his chest ached in warmth and his eyes stared in wonder every time Logan talked about the universe and the heavenly bodies it contained. He knew it when his breath hitched every time their hands brushed as they hunted for books in the mindscape library. He felt it when Logan left them in Patton’s room once when they were all drowning in nostalgia and no one had listened, the empty space beside him too obvious and too real. He realized it when Logan gave him that audiobook gift card for Christmas and they spent the whole afternoon browsing through catalogues and listening side by side. He confirmed it when he stayed with Logan through a stressful week, getting him to smile for the first time in days, keeping the beauty of his laughter all to himself.

He falls in love with Logan a little bit more each day that it hurts to even just be near him; close enough to touch, but never daring to. 

_Which way is right, which way is wrong_

_How do I say that I need to move on_

_You know we're headed separate ways_

Logan is the sun-- dazzling, bright, and radiant in all the magnificence of its rays, but scalding, deadly, dangerous once one veers close, lest they desire to suffer ‘till their forms are reduced to nothing but ash.

And maybe Virgil is already burnt, walking Thomas’ mindscape as ash, wanting to drift through the breeze if only to graze Logan’s brilliance at a microscopic scale, forever fearing the possibility of disintegrating into anything further.

He wants to stay friends, he really does. Every second he spends in avoidance of Logan is a thorn to his chest, and he pretends not to notice the lack of luster in Logan’s voice when he declines yet another visit to the library earlier that day. He feels awful subjecting his best friend to this isolation, and it feels just as excruciating for Virgil to lock himself away like this.

When he thinks of being with Logan, he thinks of how he relishes in his presence, how he feels so much at ease, how he can be himself, how he treasures every star they’ve counted and every song they’ve listened to. But he also thinks of how much he longs to linger in his arms, how he wishes to cup his face in his hands, how he yearns to link his fingers with Logan’s, to trace every fine line in his features, drink in his every word and cherish his every breath. He thinks of how he wants more than what they have, what they _are._

Then, as the song comes to an end, he thinks of how he cannot have that, and he thinks of how it hurts.

_And it feels like I am just too close to love you_

_There's nothing I can really say_

_I can't lie no more, I can't hide no more_

Roman invites him out of his room later that night to join them for dinner. Patton always tries to rope everyone together with different activities. None of them mind the efforts; in fact, some of Pat’s pursuits were well received and appreciated, becoming habitual and routine. It’s just that each of them were all so different, too diverse for these events to come about naturally.

Virgil remembers the last time he declined one of Morality’s little get togethers and has well-learned from it. 

He doesn’t know whether it was by chance, fate, or choice that the empty seat laid out for him happens to be beside Logan, but he notices how Logan’s eyes are locked on him as he approaches, and Virgil decides to be courteous enough to look at him back and shoot him a smile. 

Already he feels the rapid beating of his heart, the overwhelming rush of emotions, the falling of his guard. He reminds himself that Anxiety is not supposed to feel safe. His entire facet pivots around emergency exits, towering walls, jolts of fear, and guards paying vigil. Yet as his elbow brushes against Logan’ sleeve sitting down, he feels the trust and tranquility hidden beneath the friendship and infatuation. He fears it, tries to clamp down the feelings rising in his chest, and eats in silence.

_Got to be true to myself_

The whole table settles into light conversation. Every time Logan talks Virgil’s cheeks grow the slightest bit hotter, yet he remains unspeaking. Logan tries to spur Virgil into joining the talk, tempting him with mentions of double-edged song lyrics and book titles; but he only replies with halved answers and carefully guarded words. If he cannot distance himself physically, then perhaps he can still do so in other ways. 

_And it feels like I am just too close to love you_

Then he hears it. It’s soft, and almost unnoticeable, but Virgil hears it. His neck snaps to the side right in the middle of Logan’s sentence, trying to look for the source of that same song.

“Virgil? What’s wrong?” Logan asks, and Virgil’s eyes flit towards him, ears still picking up on the faint sounds of the song.

“Don’t you hear it, Lo?” It feels new to be talking to Logan again like this, but he pushes his former agenda aside, if only to at least find the source of the music.

Logan looks around, fork hovering over the food and neck stretching to listen. “I do not hear anything, Virgil.”

Virgil looks to the rest and finds them listening in as well, only for them to confirm nothing but the sounds of cutlery and breathing. As he takes another glance at Logan’s familiar, worried face, the song seems to resound louder.

_So I'll be on my way_

“Virge? What are you hearing, kiddo?” Patton inquires, napkin clutched loosely in his hand.

Virgil’s fingers shake around his silver utensils, spooked and confused at the premise of no one else but him hearing the recognizable riff. He considers telling them, but anxiety makes him dread what they must think of him once he reveals his plight, what Logan might say upon knowledge of his ridiculous predicament.

So he doesn’t.

“Sorry, uh… it was nothing, probably. Just thought I heard something from the imagination. Maybe I just need sleep or whatever.”

The line works on most of them, sending them into a cascade of reminders for Virgil to take better care of himself, and a few teasing words from Janus and Remus. Logan stays silent, and from the corner of Virgil’s eyes it’s hard to miss how Logan’s brows furrow, before it smoothes again into the usual stoicism he holds often.

The song comes to an end, and Virgil thinks his suffering ends there.

From beside him, Logan stands abruptly. He thanks Patton for the meal, places his dishes in the dishwasher, and retreats into his room. His absence both relieves and disappoints Virgil, bringing him back to when he’d usually follow suit with a half-coherent debate topic on hand, ready to get verbally beaten by Logan in a light-hearted battle of wits.

He doesn’t expect the song to start again.

_You gave me more that I can return_

_Yet there's so much that you deserve_

He’s mostly kept to his room since the dinner. He spent the entirety of that night hunting for the source of the music. He checked his phone, his speakers, his headphones. He ventured through the mindscape to relentlessly hunt for where it was coming from, only to come back defeated, tired, and losing his mind over hearing the song for more than ten times in a single night.

He concluded, as he stood in the middle of his messy room, that it was coming from his mind. He didn’t sleep that night, and he still can’t now. It’s grown a bit louder over the days. He tries to ignore it, blasting louder music to drown it out or occupying himself with watching conspiracy videos and writing half-assed poetry until the sun rises yet again without his knowledge. 

But the song’s ceaseless beats continue its tune, like a broken record left to play for eternity.

_Nothing to say, nothing to do,_

_I've nothing to give_

He finds his answer at the one-week mark, after scouring countless of articles on the web and timing his visits to the library at times when no one, especially Logan is around. It’s an odd ordeal being in a library when Alex Clare’s voice is playing over and over in your head at a certain volume. He reads about a thing called _Musicalia_ and how this curse happens when one falls into the unfortunate circumstance of unrequited love, only ending once the love is finally reciprocated. That is, assuming the individual has not lost themselves to insanity yet.

The words brand itself in his consciousness, mingling with the notes and lyrics on-repeat. Virgil shuts the book close with trembling hands and heaving breaths, panic threatening to take him over. He tips his head back and breathes, trying his utmost best to keep a steady rhythm despite the confusing tempo in his ears. Images of Logan find its way into the forefront of his thoughts, memories playing out in time to the song, biting Virgil with every lyric and moment his brain throws at him.

He recalls the number of times Logan had emphasized how he did not feel things and how Virgil always corrected him after, telling him to quit denying the fact and spending whole nights in Logan’s room trying to prove to him that he does indeed have the capacity for emotion. 

Though Logan never believed it, Virgil always did-- still does. However, the prospect of Logan harboring feelings for _Virgil_? It was more impossible than a rock growing wings. Virgil desperately tries to stop the tears from flowing once he thinks about how Logan may never see Virgil the way he sees him, how there is nothing about himself Logan or anyone can possibly love beyond friendship, and how Logan will only ever see him as that. A friend.

“Too Close” restarts again, and he yells, hoping the echoing of his screams will be enough to scare away its taunting notes. He yells as he thinks about how he might have to live with this song trapped in his head forever. 

He cries as he realizes he may not even have forever.

But he can stay sane. He _will_ stay sane. For himself, for Thomas, and for Logan.

_I must leave without you_

_You know we're headed separate ways_

He knows he cannot hide in his room forever, and circumstances where he is forced to leave the comforts of his room are unavoidable. None of the sides can control when they are summoned, so Virgil learns to divide his attention. He trains himself to push the record player to the back of his mind to listen to what the rest have to say. He grows accustomed to hiding the twitching of his eyes, the throbbing of his head, and the gritting of his teeth. He clamps down pained groans in front of the others and manages to hold conversations without looking off into space too often.

He still talks with Logan, albeit professionally. They discuss the advantages and disadvantages of attending a social gathering, right times to hold livestreams, mistakes and inconsistencies in their scripts. Virgil sees how the wonder in Logan’s irises have diminished, how the words have lessened, how the cadence of his voice has flattened. And Virgil aches to reach out if only to see Logan’s smile again, to laugh with him until their stomachs hurt, to wear his tie and have him wear his hoodie, to have things back to where they were before.

But every minute he spends with Logan is another notch higher in his curse’s volume, another hit on the replay button, another shard in his head and a thorn in his heart. So he swallows his yearning and keeps their acquaintanceship as a forlorn shot at dwindling his own suffering. 

Sometimes, Virgil thinks if he should instead go the opposite route and restart the fire; mend their friendship and hope for it to grow into something beautiful, something that will throw him out of this endless loop. But every time the suggestion comes to him, the insecurities and the anxiety attack ten-fold, reminding him that Logan never will, especially not now. And he again chooses to instead see how far he can push the fragile threads of his mind.

How long can he last in this never-ending nightmare?

_And it feels like I am just too close to love you_

_There's nothing I can really say_

It gets louder with each passing day. He is not sure how many weeks or months have passed, but to him it’s been eternity. 

Other times he gives in, hopelessly singing along and tapping his palms and fingers against his desk with nothing to do but ride along the song’s sickening, lively beat. He’s memorized it by now, knowing every rise and fall of the singer’s voice and every pitch of the synthetic accompaniment. He doesn’t even register any longer when the song has ended and when it’s started again. 

Most times he’s frantic and furious, exhausted and desperate to have one minute of silence. During those days he loses his control over his body and he lets rip the loudest, ear-curdling screams into the expanses of his room as he throws everything he can lay his hands on. He digs his fingernails into his scalp as if tearing open the skin there will release the song from its cranial prison. He helplessly runs his hands across his face, nails dragging against pale skin, breaths loud and heavy.

All the while he can only think of Logan, the very virus who caused him his anguish and the only person who can cure him of it. Logan, the beacon in the night he blindly flew into, like a moth drawn into the brightest flame in the sky. 

_I can't lie no more, I can't hide no more_

_Got to be true to myself_

He’s on his bed hugging his body tight one night, tear stains still fresh and lips mumbling the godforsaken lyrics when it happens. 

He almost doesn’t hear it over the deafening sound waves of the cursed song, but there’s a knock.

He hauls himself out of bed, does a quick check in the mirror, wipes his eyes and dabs powder over his face to give a semblance of stability, and breathes deep as he opens the door.

The volume hikes up again once he sees who’s behind it, his heart hammers in his chest, and it takes all of his strength not to wince from the sheer loudness of the song.

Logan looks like a deer caught in headlights, as though he was not expecting Virgil to open the door. He’s carrying a tray with a plate of Crofters-filled pastries and two glasses of juice, standing slightly awkwardly in his place. Virgil stands just as rigidly, fingers in a death grip on the door knob.

_And it feels like I am just too close to love you_

“Oh, uhm, hel-- _salutations,_ Virgil,” Logan begins, face back into a neutral expression while his arms shake ever so slightly. “Janus and Patton tried their hand at baking a while ago and requested me to bring some in for you. They’re asking for a sort of ‘peer review’ on their work, if you don’t mind.”

Virgil’s grip on the doorknob tightens while his fight or flight instincts try to kick in. His hands then quickly fly out to quite clumsily take the tray from Logan, the slight brush of their fingers intoxicating.

“Cool. I’ll tell them how it is later. Tell them I said ‘thanks’ for me, Lo.” Virgil begins to move the door closed with his foot. “Now, uh, if that’s all--”

“Wait!” Logan sets a hand on the door from his side, keeping it open, eyes wide and staring into Virgil’s intently. “I have also been meaning to discuss something with you, if I may.”

Their eyes stay on each other through the small opening, the tray shaking slightly as the song continues to blare through his mind, and Logan speaks again.

“Please.”

Virgil swears he hears so much emotion in that one word that he double checks to see if this person in front of him is actually Logan. Despite the loud alarms saying otherwise, he finds his walls crumbling once again in front of this man and before he knows it, his foot is nudging the door open.

“Okay. Come in.”

Logan does, and the emotion is expertly wiped off his face. “Thank you.”

Virgil sets the tray on his desk as he sits on his swivel chair, and Logan silently asks permission to sit on his bed. Virgil gives him the ‘go’ signal in the form of a nod and a pained smile. The moment feels wrong. Both of them are too silent, too distant, yet the music in Virgil’s mind is too loud, too alive.

“So, what did ya’ wanna talk about?”

Logan looks down for a bit before looking back up at Virgil. “I only want to know how you are faring, Virgil. It has been… a while since we last held proper conversation outside of work.”

Virgil feels something in his chest grow heavier. Instinctively, he grabs a pastry from the plate, leans back against the chair, and takes a bite; a false display of laxness and soundness. “Thanks for the concern, pocket protector, but I’m doing a-OK. Honestly don’t know why you’d ask that.”

“Maybe I asked it because you are obviously not.” There’s much more of a bite now in Logan’s tone, and Virgil knows him well enough to be wary when his voice shifts in this manner.

“What are you talking about, Lo? I’ve been attending the meetings, I show up fine when summoned. Hell, I’ve never missed one of Pat’s little ‘family nights’--”

“Let me rephrase the question, then.” Logan clears his throat and the quickest burst of emotion flashes through his features; gone as quick as it came. “How are _we_ faring?”

The pastry stops short of his mouth, and the song reaches another verse. “Pardon?”

Logan visibly breathes, chest rising and falling asynchronously to Virgil’s personal jukebox. “Virgil, if you need space, then that is respectable. If you wish to have time for yourself then I cannot say or do anything against it.” Logan’s hand goes to his tie, moving as if to adjust it but ending up crumpling it in his grip. “My only request is that… if I have done anything, anything at all that has caused you this distress, anything that may have caused you to disengage from our usual routines together, please tell me.”

Logan keeps face, but the slight gleam in his eyes gives him away. The energy of the song ruins the moment but it doesn’t make the emotions between them any less real.

“Logan… it’s-- it’s not that--”

“Then what is it, Virgil? The easiest course of action for me to take would be to accept your answer, rid myself of unnecessary guilt, and let you be. But these previous months I cannot help but notice how your approach towards me has changed along with a decrease in our customary activities together. I’ve noticed how you have been avoiding me, Virgil, and if I have done anything erroneous at all to bring upon your behavior then I ask that you tell me, so I may make my amends.” Logan’s lips tremble after his words and he waits for Virgil to speak.

Virgil merely stares right back, heart about to beat out of his chest and temples about to burst from throbbing. “Logan, you’ve done nothing wrong, I swear--”

“Then what _can_ I do?” His voice shakes and the neutrality of his features are gone, his most raw emotions lain bare for Virgil to see. “I want what is needed to be fixed, fixed. I want to help you, Virgil. I want us to be okay. I want _you_ to be okay; because I--” Logan pauses, then visibly gulps. “--I am your _friend._ ”

There it is. _Friend._ The word mocks him, reminds Virgil of his place. He feels a piece of his heart shatter while the song blares even louder, a possibility he wishes never existed.

“Is this not, by definition, what friends do?” 

A sticky concoction of emotions and panic lodges itself in Virgil’s chest, and his next words slip out of his mouth before he even has the chance to think about it twice. 

“No. Friends are supposed to not snoop around and milk answers to wash the guilt out of his hands. Friends are supposed to understand when the other doesn’t want to say _shit._ And friends leave the other alone when he wishes him to.” Virgil barely hears himself over the thunderous tune, but he is aware of how much he is shaking, sees how uncomposed and trembling Logan is in front of him.

It doesn’t suit him.

_So I'll be on my way_

“Do you… do you wish for me to? Do you want me to leave you alone?”

 _No._ Virgil’s head and heart both scream “no,” but he is reminded of the dangers, of the pain he might cause both of them if he drags this on any longer. His lips move on its own accord.

“Yes. Please.” It’s barely a whisper, but the pain in Logan’s eyes tells him that he was heard. 

A single tear rolls down Logan’s cheek, but he irons out his features, acting as though the answer doesn’t hurt him. He stands up, smoothes the creases of his tie and shirt, and takes one last look at Virgil. 

“Then as your friend, I will gladly oblige. Don’t forget to send Patton and Janus your thoughts on the confectionary. Good day, Virgil” Logan is out of the door in a few quick strides; pastries and drink forgotten on Virgil’s desk.

_So I'll be on my way_

The panic finally dislodges itself from Virgil’s throat, and he lets go. He shakily moves to his bed and hugs his knees close to his chest, breaths painful and heaving, cries bouncing off his walls. He regrets every word he said as it replays in his mind, an incoherent mix of his own and Alex Clare’s words fighting for dominance in his head. The music continues to mock him, his hands coming up to once again claw at his scalp and pull at his hair in the midst of his attack.

He knows he was wrong. Oh, so wrong. But it is too late now to do anything. He’s too far gone. The derisive replays of both the events from earlier and the _fucking song_ tortures him, digging figurative daggers into his brain, leeching the sanity out of him. He does not even notice when he begins banging his head against the wall, eyes closed, jaw clenched tight, groans and screams falling out of his lips.

He only stops when he opens his eyes to see red on his bedroom wall. 

It takes a while for the panic to settle down and even longer for him to be coherent enough to tend to his wound. 

As images of Logan flood his mind, the song ends and starts again.

_And it feels like I am just too close to love you_

They never talk again after that, save for when the circumstance gravely requires it. Eventually the amount of scabs on Virgil’s scalp, head, and face along with the grave repetitiveness of the music make it near-impossible for Virgil to come out and face anyone. He spends most of his time hysterically trying to drown the musical noise from within him. The bags in his eyes are enough to fool anyone into thinking it as eyeshadow, his pallor a ghostly white, cheeks sunken, and eyes deeply haunted.

He whiles away the hours pacing his room, lips mouthing the lyrics, fingers picking at the threads of his jacket, feet tripping over each other as it treks through his wrecked quarters. He hopes, wishes and prays for it to stop. He’s grown addicted to the few seconds of silence brought about by the song’s ending, slowly fading out into tranquil nothing, and he finds himself chasing it ‘till it restarts. 

He cannot remember the last time he’s slept, eaten, or opened his door for anyone. If they had knocked at his door, he would not have known. He hears nothing else anymore; nothing but the music’s unending harmony.

_There's nothing that I can really say_

In the violent waves of his cursed melody, he still sees Logan. Often he lays in bed, staring at his black ceiling fan, allowing his memories to play out as movies before him. His exhausted form luxuriates in images of the two of them laying in Logan’s room, watching the constellations on his ceiling dance above them. He relives how Logan named each one, telling Virgil of the myths behind them and the stories they bring. He remembers how he’d tease Logan with astrology, waiting until Logan scrunches his nose in distaste of such “fallacious predictions.”

Often in his maddened state, his thoughts tread further. He thinks of how he wants to keep his hand in Logan’s, how he longs to card his fingers through his soft locks, aches to count every dip of his face and every spot on his skin, wishes to lie side-by-side and face-to-face, forms locking together like jigsaw pieces, yearns to memorize the feel of Logan’s lips on his own.

He misses him, cares for him, wants him, needs him. He _loves_ him.

His tangled thoughts bring him back to when he first read about his condition in the library. There are only two ways to end this loop. Either Logan reciprocates his love, or he shuts down the very source of the music -- himself. One of those two are more improbable, more impossible than the other, and Virgil dreads to think that it might be the former.

_I can't lie no more, I can't hide no more_

He’ll be lying when he says he hasn’t thought of it before. There have been multiple days where his brain cracks under the pressure of the song’s torturous tones, where the invitation is all too tempting, the thought of release too sweet to resist. But he’s stood strong, still here and alive with countless scars and painful memories to prove it.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay that way.

It’s a daunting thing to realize that this song may stay in his head forever, that he may have to live with this for all of Thomas’ lifetime. But he’s so, _so_ tired. He just wants the song to _end._ He wants the instrumental to fade out into nothingness for one last time and to never hear it fade back in again. Is it too much to ask? 

Now, as Virgil fruitlessly fights to claw the chorus out of his skull, there are only three things in his mind. The _motherfucking_ song, the love of his life, and how badly he wants to end everything.

He drags himself to the mirror with a pained sigh and runs his eyes over himself. He traces every wound, scab, and scar on his face and body with his hands, fingers moving along to the relentless beat. Tears flow from his eyes yet he laughs. Virgil cackles as he counts every mark dotting his sickly skin. His nails drag across every one as he giggles and gasps out the lyrics, body swaying out of rhythm, arms reaching up to the imaginary constellations in his ceiling. He keeps his head tipped back, eyes straight north as he loudly sings along. 

_Got to be true to myself_

He twirls, and twirls, and twirls until he falls onto the ground, a non-existent phantom of Logan catching him, lifting him up and setting him down onto his bed. He feels wetness seeping out the back of his head and remembers when Roman brought them all into the Imagination, where Virgil had pulled Logan out of the shade and into the rain. Logan had taken his hand and led him into a dance, and they laughed and spun ‘till the sunset shone through the droplets.

The manic laughter dies down slowly, and in its place he’s thrown head-first into the first real taste of fear he’s had today. His thoughts veer into dangerous territory yet again, and Virgil finds himself staring once more at the steady spiraling of his ceiling fan. His gaze drifts off and lands at the top of his cabinet, where a roll of rope peacefully sits.

Fatigued and deep into the inky depths of insanity, Virgil breathes; then he makes himself a deal.

If the song starts again, that’s his final straw.

A dazed smile creeps on his face as he sings the last chorus, waiting for the inevitable way the last bit of instrument dies down. He closes his eyes and listens. It fades in, then--

_You know I'm not one to break promises_

His eyes snap open, and he snickers. The snicker turns into a giggle, and soon he’s cackling, chortling to the emptiness of his room. That was his signal. It can finally be over. Logan should be proud of him for coming up with this solution on his own.

He leaps up and almost falls out of balance. He mouths the words as he drags a chair to his dresser, climbing up and grabbing the rope. Before he does anything else, he pulls out a letter pressed between the pages of his and Logan’s favorite book. It’s creased and not so purely white anymore from how many times Virgil had considered ending his suffering, chickening out at the last minute every time.

But not this time. He is a man of his word. He places the envelope with a neatly-written “Logan” decorating it back down on the book.

The next steps are easy enough, and the killer tunes make everything much more fun. He feels silly placing his head through the clumsily-tied noose while standing on a rolling chair. He closes his eyes, conjures the beautiful image of Logan to the front of his mind, and kicks.

_And it feels like I am just too close to love you_

_So I'll be on my way_

The rope is rough on his neck, itchy and uncomfortable. The panic settles in quickly, just as fast as the breath is knocked out of his lungs, denied a way of re-entry. He spasms and fights for air, body looking for anchorage he’ll never have. 

_Knock knock knock._

His eyes widen when he hears it, almost missing it through the unbearably loud chorus playing in his head. He shoves his fingers between the rope and his neck, a final fight for life just to know who it is.

“Virgil?”

_So I’ll be on my way_

He gasps as he recognizes the voice. The knocks continue its ministrations as Virgil’s vision blurs further and further around the edges. His lungs begin to burn, punishing him for the lack of oxygen as his legs continue to struggle for footing.

The knocks grow louder and more frantic but the door stays closed. He’s too late, Virgil thinks. He whispers an apology to his room, hoping it might relay the message to Logan for him once he’s gone.

A tear falls from Virgil’s eye as he feels the last huff of breath leave his lungs, vision going black and eyes rolling to the back of his head. He closes his eyes to the dazzling imagery of Logan’s smile, the sound of knocking, and the fading of music.

_So I’ll be on my way_

It doesn’t start again.

**~~~~~**

Finding Virgil’s body was the most horrifying experience Logan could have ever subjected himself to. He had cradled Virgil’s lifeless form back then, his fingers horrifically running through every uneven mark littering his ghastly skin, tears falling onto Virgil’s hoodie and cries billowing around the room.

It’s Remus who had handed Logan the letter with a sorrowful look on his face. Logan had torn it open then and there, with Virgil’s hauntingly light form still limp in his arms. All reservation for emotion had been thrown out the window once he finished through it, his chest aching and entire body trembling once Virgil’s entire explanation, story, apology, and confession had been laid out for Logan to take in.

Virgil loved him. Virgil suffered through that maddening condition because he loved him. Virgil is _dead_ because he loved Logan.

He’s dead because he thought Logan did not love him back.

And for a while Logan thought the same thing. For so long he had denied his capacity for emotion, pushed down any and all indications of romantic affections, made way for objectivity and logic.

But he loved Virgil-- _loves_ Virgil; and he was too caught up in his role to admit it. He was too late.

He supposes he deserves the pain he’s harboring now. Virgil in his letter had told him never to blame himself, that he’d come back to haunt him if Logan ever does. And Logan tries. He does not succeed all the time, but it’s a valiant effort. 

He is still Logic, and so he does what he knows best -- he plans. The next best step would be to move on from the depressing event and carry on with their respective responsibilities. It’s a difficult task to execute given how his memories with Virgil invade his every sleeping and waking moment, but he desperately convinces himself that he has to.

It’s what the others would have told him. It’s what Thomas needs. It’s what Virgil would have wanted. 

They all wait. Anxiety is still a crucial part of Thomas’ personality, and it is only a matter of time before the mindscape conjures up a persona to take Virgil’s place. Logan thinks it’s better this way. This will be an entirely different individual, one he holds no emotional attachment to, one that will not discredit his unbiased facet, one that is not his best friend, _not_ _Virgil._

Logan does not know whether it’s a good or bad thing that the new Anxiety comes late at night, when Logan goes to refill his coffee mug, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. Logan’s breath comes out shaking as he drinks in the same jacket, same purple shirt, ripped jeans and purple-laced shoes. The facet meets Logan’s gaze, looking lost and scared, and Logan swallows when he sees the same black eyeshadow under his eyes, the same tufts of hair that fall in front of his face, and same terrible posture.

But his pallor looks a healthy color, not a single mark mars his skin, and there is no recognition behind his irises. Logan reminds himself that this is not his Virgil, evens his breathing, and does what is expected of him.

“Salutations. I’m Logan, Thomas’ logical side.” Logan begins his introduction, cautious to keep his distance from the obviously confused side. “Apologies. It appears you have materialized at a late hour, when everyone else is asleep. May I… may I have your name? If you feel comfortable doing so, of course.”

The side twists his fingers in his hoodie strings, an action that screams too much of Virgil. It takes his entire willpower not to break down then and there.

“I’m Virgil, Thomas’ Anxiety, I think.”

The name has Logan’s breath catching in his throat. Suddenly, he’s filled with the overwhelming urge to cry, to envelope this side in the tightest hug and not let go, to tell him how much he loves him and mutter unending apologies ‘till his lungs hurt. But his rationality still takes the upper hand, and he exhales, adamant on keeping his professionalism, set on carrying out his duties.

“Welcome, Virgil. There is already a room set for you in the corridor. I can escort you there right now if you wish to. After all, rest is a requirement to maintain optimal heal--”

“I’m, uh, actually not tired right now,” Anxiety says, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I dunno if this is an effect of just having been born but uh, yeah. I don’t feel tired at all.” The side huffs out a single laugh and looks at Logan.

Logan wants nothing more than to retreat into his room and prepare himself for the surely torturous days he will be having ahead of him; but he knows to be courteous and dismisses his own selfish desires. “Ah, of course. Then would you like to remain here for the time being? I, myself, am not feeling fatigued yet.” Logan pauses, watching as the new side hops up on the counter, swinging his feet and looking around at his new environment. “In fact, I was just about to make another cup of coffee. Would you like some?”

Anxiety’s eyes light up and he nods. Logan obliges and makes drinks for them both. He doesn’t realize that he’s just made Virgil’s exact coffee mix, brown and creamy with just the lightest bite of bitterness. The mug is already in New Anxiety’s hands before Logan can realize the fact. 

The side thanks him, takes a sip, and closes his eyes with a hum and the softest smile on his face. He leans back until his head rests against an overhead cupboard before taking another sip out of the concoction.

“Logan, right?” He asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Correct. How’s the drink?”

“It’s perfect. Just how I’d like it.”

Logan does his best not to choke on his own mug. 

They slip into light conversation after that with Logan remaining standing, hip leaning back against the counter only a few inches away from where Anxiety sits.

As the hours drag on, Logan internally gasps in anguish at how achingly _Virgil_ this new side is. He’s got everything down to his smirk, his manner of speaking, choice of words, the way his hand clasps over his mouth in laughter and how his voice drops lower in teasing.

Every second he spends with the new side twists the figurative stake already lodged in his chest. They talk for as long as they can hold their eyes open, going into topics he and Virgil once talked about under the starry night sky. For a second, Logan thinks this may be his Virgil, yet he’s reminded by the way this side has no memory, no knowledge of the library’s awaiting secrets nor of the constellations’ mythical stories that he is indeed, not.

It hurts, but Logan stays. He stays by this facet’s side until he is tired enough to settle into his room, leaving Logan to gasp for air in his own quarters; mind going haywire at the prospect of him having to deal with a Virgil he can reach with his very fingertips, so painfully real and close to the love he once knew, but never being able to touch him.

Logan misses him, and this new, living, breathing reminder that he is still very much in love with someone he cannot have strikes him like a hundred lightning strikes at once.

_You know I'm not one to break promises_

_I don't want to hurt you but I need to breathe_

_At the end of it all, you're still my best friend_

_But there's something inside that I need to release_

The song starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're all okay. Every little support and kudos is eternally appreciated. Pay me a visit over on Tumblr [@nerdy-emo-royal-dad](https://nerdy-emo-royal-dad.tumblr.com/)! Stay hydrated and safe, loves! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [what you don't know (can't hurt you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623876) by [driftingashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/driftingashes/pseuds/driftingashes)




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